Curiosity Killed the Cat
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Vampires Will Bite and Other True Myths, #1. *A cat adopts Oliver. He isn't too happy about it.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving a little fantasy and a lot of twists. No cats were harmed in the making of this fic. Told in two parts. Complete.
1. Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Work Title: Curiosity Killed the Cat  
Part: 1 - Curiosity Killed the Cat...  
Word Count: 9120**

 **Notes:** After a long drive arguing with myself, I've decided to gift this to alexiablackbriar13 on Tumblr as a late birthday present because this is the kind of thing I never would have written if I'd never met her. Her AUs are fantasy and fun, just crazy enough to work. And if I emhadn't/em met her, I would have had this idea and never thought, "Let's see how this plays out on paper."

Beyond that... I literally do not know what happened. I've written some weird freaking stuff in my day, but I just got this image in my head and I had to. I would say it's midnight crack!fic, but I had this idea while driving home from school. And crack!fic usually doesn't take itself seriously, but I take _everything_ I write seriously, so maybe not crack. Don't know.

Basically, brace yourselves because it's about to get weird in here.

If you find it in yourselves to respond, thank you. If you take the time to read this insanity, thank you. If you can't handle the crazy, the exit is the big X located at the top right corner of your browser and thanks for playing. :D

More notes at the bottom.

* * *

Though it's below freezing in Starling City, Oliver perches on the breezy rooftop without feeling the cold night air. It should bother him, but after ten years away from home and eight of them on the island, he doesn't even really feel it anymore. It could be years of conditioning, and he'd like to tell himself that, but more likely it's the nature of what Shado turned him into three years ago.

When she told him how she'd saved his life, Oliver thought she'd damned him to a fate worse than death. But despite his original fears, being a vampire barely affects his life on a day-to-day basis. He doesn't notice anyone else's blood, other than a slight pulse in his ears, and he only has to feed once week or so unless he's injured. When he's thirsty, he doesn't feel compelled to bite people. The first time he was home, he hesitated around the Queen family silverware, but, to his surprise, it didn't burn him. He sunburns a little faster than he used to, but other than that, sunlight doesn't affect him, either.

But the biggest problem is immortality, a complication he'll have to deal with in a decade or so.

Though his newfound vampire situation has its difficulties—like trying to steal blood from the hospitals or blood banks—it's mostly a manageable situation. He stores extra blood in the fridge in the basement for his nightly activities as the Arrow, and if he plans to be out in the sun for too long, he has to use a high-SPF sunblock. Hiding his fangs is a constant chore, making sure not to smile too wide or yawn without covering his mouth. Not being able to sleep is a little annoying at times, even though it gives him more time to try and save the city in the only way he knows how. And having to ask permission to enter non-public places is a pain in the ass, but it's far better than the black scorch mark that appears down his bicep for a few weeks.

The _real_ challenge, however, are the damn cats. Ever since Shado turned him into a vampire, nocturnal predators tend to find comfort in his presence—and none more so than felines. He doesn't understand why or how, but since becoming a nocturnal predator himself, every cat with in a five hundred foot radius seems to find him fascinating. It was a problem that plagued Shado on the island, too; every big cat on the island found her and followed her around. And now, after the destruction that happened in the Glades while he was away, hundreds of cats roam the city, most nights making him feel like the Pied Piper of cats.

Even now he can feel one making a figure-eight around his legs, and when he looks down, a kitten that might be a calico under all the grime is rubbing up against his boots. Sighing, he picks up the little feline and places it at arm's length on the rooftop before whispering to it, "Go on—get out of here." Unsurprisingly, it does; they seem to understand what he wants them to do, even if they don't understand his words. Since becoming a vampire, he hasn't been scratched by a cat, and even once, a leopard curled up next to him on a particularly cold night when he was alone and injured.

But the great thing about being immortal is that he's in absolutely no hurry for the monster in the alleyway to move into position beneath him while closing in on the woman he's cornered. The scum lurking three stories below Oliver is a predator he doesn't allow to hunt in his city.

Finally when the mark moves into position, Oliver leaps off the building, landing just behind the man he means to stop. Before the monster can even move, the vigilante pins him to the opposite wall, calling over his shoulder to the woman, "Go." She does as he asks, which allows him to turn his attention to the bastard before him, who is already shaking in his hands. "I'm going to let you live tonight," he promises under the deep voice modulator, "but if you _ever_ try to hurt another woman again, I'm going to pin your heart to this wall." He's met with shaking. "Have I made myself clear?"

His answer comes in the way of vigorous nodding, and Oliver releases his grip on the scum. "Now get out of here before I change my mind," he declares, and the would-be rapist need not be told twice. By the time he hits the main street, he's already screaming, the noise shrill and high pitched. The vampire can't help but smile, not caring if he flashes his teeth while under the hood. At least the mask gives him some anonymity.

A noise catches his attention, and he turns to it, nocking an arrow and drawing his bow in seconds. When he makes out the silhouette of pointed ears against the dark brick walls, he sighs, lowering it and replacing the arrow. Just another damn cat, as always, even if it _is_ obscured by the dumpster.

The cat strides out into view, stopping in the mouth of the alleyway and effectively blocking his exit. For being a nonhuman animal, it seems just as surprised to see him as he is to see it, a foot left suspended in the air as it stares at him with an intelligence in its eyes that borders on eerie. Because cats, the billionaire can handle—and has been for years. But in all his time, he has _never_ in his life seen a cat quite like this one.

It's big for a cat, perhaps just as tall at the shoulders as a Great Dane. Its fur falls in long, wavy tendrils that somehow aren't tangled despite it being feral, most of its coat a dark mix of black, brown, and red in stripes of each color blending together. Raised ears flick back and forth as it stares at him, with tufts of ebony fur standing upright at the top of them. Oliver has never faced a cat quite like this before, and he knows for a fact that this one is a wild creature, not meant to be a pet but a scavenger in the city.

For a moment, all he can do is stare at it, but finally he comes to his senses. "Get out of here," he whispers to it, feeling just as ridiculous as he always does when he talks to them. Oliver expects compliance because it's what he usually receives in return, but instead the… lynx—if that's even what it is—sits down defiantly in his path out of the alley. Its head tilts to the side, tail flicking back and forth as it stares at him. Only then does he realize it has fangs not unlike his own, protruding out of its mouth and hanging down in sharp points.

Because he's not going to risk moving too close to a wild cat even with his typical luck with felines, he only scowls at it before firing an arrow and returning to the same rooftop he came from. Though he probably shouldn't, he can't resist looking down to see if the cat was actually real, or if it existed at all. It isn't there when he looks, and he frowns at himself; he didn't know hallucinations were part of being a vampire.

A small mewing sound draws his attention, and Oliver looks over to see the same cat as before on the rooftop, sitting and staring at him again, tail flicking in a lazy pattern of movement all the while. He resists the urge to shoot it with an arrow—of course the damn thing is going to follow him now. The _last_ thing he needs is a cat prowling around him, announcing his presence and making him lose the element of surprise.

This time, he doesn't try to call out to it, but instead ignores as he traverses the rooftops. It follows closely on his heels, never breaking stride even through some dangerous stunts. After a while, he decides to go to ground in an alley, confident he can outrun the beast on the ground. But when he jumps, it doesn't follow, only staring at him over the edge of the rooftop with its head tilted to the side, as if to judge his decision to leave the rooftops.

Footsteps draw his attention, and he turns just in time to watch a police officer on patrol make the corner, pulling his gun as he takes in the hood. "SCPD, you're under arrest—" he starts, but he doesn't get the opportunity to finish because he's interrupted by a feral screech and his own screaming.

Though there's nothing funny about the situation, Oliver can't fight the way the corners of his mouth twist up at the officer's screaming when the oversized, feral cat lands on him, hissing and clawing with a ferociousness he didn't expect. Fur flies everywhere as the officer tries to push it off between nonsensical phrases. After a long moment, it finally chooses to let him up from the ground, and the officer runs out of the alleyway covered in red claw marks and a torn uniform.

The lynx, for its part, simply turns to stare at him again, red glinting at the ends of its teeth and soaking across the pads of its feet. It makes no move to attack Oliver, and he realizes that it isn't going to. The damn cat probably just saved him from being shot or arrested—or both. As that realization hits him, he mutters aloud to it, "I guess you aren't as useless as you look."

In response, the feral cat's ears lie flat against its head, and it hisses at him, tail lashing back and forth, and despite the warning it presents, it makes no move to attack him. Though it makes no sense, the only conclusion Oliver can come to is that he offended the damn thing somehow. Feeling like an idiot, he tells it, "Thank you." Its ears stand erect again, and it makes a low noise that he can't decipher He takes slow steps out of the alley, surprised when it doesn't turn to follow him; after all that time following him, even a cat doesn't change its mind that fast.

In a weary breath, he asks it, "Are you coming or not?"

Though he doesn't look back, Oliver can feel the wild cat trailing behind him. It should probably bother him that something is following him back to his lair, but he doesn't mind. A sense of loneliness has been plaguing him for a long time, but there's been little chance to do something about it. On the island, was forced to be alone through most parts of it, and now he has no choice but to keep everyone at arm's length due to the nature of what he does.

He can't help but think that Thea might have enjoyed if he could only tell it to her; she has loved cats ever since she was a kid and she volunteers at an animal shelter in the Glades after school. She's been dragging home pets since she could walk, and she seems to be very knowledgeable about them. Maybe he'll ask her about this one, see if she knows what the hell it is.

By the time his wandering thoughts clear, Oliver is standing in front of the heavy industrial door of what used to be the Queen steel factory. After typing in the code, he throws the door open, motioning for the lynx to enter. It takes a few slow steps forward on its long limbs, but instead of walking into the basement, it knocks its head against his hip, causing the vigilante to stumble. From there, it rubs its side against him as it passes. The cat makes a soft rumbling sound he more feels than hears, and he can only assume it's _purring_ at him.

When he follows the feral cat, the corner of the archer's mouth lifts up as he watches it make a circle in the center of the room before climbing into the chair in front of his computer desk and starts licking its bloodstained paws. He pulls down the hood and removes his gloves and quiver as the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the metal gurney catches his attention, giving him an idea. He grabs the bottle and a towel from underneath the gurney, approaching the lynx with slow, measured steps.

It watches him, but doesn't tense as he approaches or show any signs of aggression as he sinks down in a crouch in front of it. "I'm going to clean you up," he warns it, squirting some of the hydrogen peroxide on his own hand as demonstration. Then he squirts the towel and, as though reaching for a hot coal, he latches onto the cat's foot.

To his surprise, it doesn't react, doesn't lash out at him. Instead, it lets him lift its foot into the air and wipe the blood away from each of its front paws. He expects resistance when he goes for the cat's muzzle, but it lets him anyway. Once he finishes, it simply runs its tongue around the outside of his mouth before dropping onto the floor in front of him. Only then does he realize that its eyes are a shade between blue and green, its slit-like pupils wide in the dark room.

From there, he rises to his feet, walking over to the mini-fridge he put downstairs when he first started this mission to save the city. Oliver pulls out a packet of blood, pouring it into the silver thermos and taking a drink before sitting down in the same chair the cat occupied earlier. From there, he turns to the computer to check the news websites for potential targets, but the familiar sound of arrows clattering to the floor interrupts him. He turns at the sound, only to discover the damn cat draped across the long desk with its front paws tucked under it, staring at him with innocent eyes, despite the arrows he was working on strewn all over the floor.

"You're too big for the desk," he growls at it, causing the beast to tilt its head to the side, ears standing erect. "Get down." As expected, it only continues to stare at him without blinking. Almost as if in defiance, it pulls its front paws out from under its torso, letting one dangle off the desk and the other draping across his arm. When he doesn't respond to the action, the cat paws at him, which he also ignores, turning back to his computer screen.

That's when the damn thing bites him.

It isn't hard enough to draw blood, just a playful nip at his hand to draw his attention. He glares at it, throwing its leg off his arm, which is met with a low growl. Of _course_ it had to be cats—Oliver never really even liked the damn things when he was human, and especially not now that they serve as such nuisances in his life. He takes another sip from his thermos before saying to it in a flare of irritation, "Don't you have something better to do?"

In response, all it does is reach out for his hand again, almost biting it again before he wrenches his hand back. Though he tries to fight it, the corners of his mouth turn up of their own accord, and he reaches out to run a hand over its head. The action is met with a sound that resembles purring, especially when he scratches behind its ears. Oliver isn't sure how long the moment lasts, but then it jumps down from the desk, moving to his cot in the back of the room and lying across it, watching him with those blue-green eyes and a tail flicking back and forth in curiosity.

The two of them spend the rest of the night like that, in a relative quiet. Even though his newfound friend doesn't do anything else to try and gain his attention, the cat somehow manages to provide a nice, comfortable feeling of companionship through the night. Time passes at a relatively fast pace, until scratching and yowling gets his attention. When he looks up, Oliver finds the beast scratching at the door as though frantic for escape.

Frowning, the archer rises to his feet, walking to the doorway and typing in the code to open it. He expects the feral cat to run out, but instead it takes a moment to rub against his leg as it brushes past him again in that same affectionate gesture from before. Scowling as he shuts the door again, Oliver turns back to his clothes lying on a table next to the cot, deciding it's time to return home and call it a night—or perhaps a very early morning.

Because, as much as he hates to admit it, the place is a little too quiet all of the sudden.

* * *

While he can't tell Thea about his cat situation, as he sits at the bar of Tommy's nightclub, Verdant, Oliver settles for telling his best friend about it while he tries to do inventory of the bar. Once he finishes the story, the Merlyn heir laughs. "Sounds like she adopted _you_ , Ollie," he teases, reaching for a bottle of alcohol at the top shelf of the bar. Even when he stretches, the shelf is too high, so the next thing the archer knows, a black bear is cradling the bottle between both paws, standing probably ten feet tall on its hind legs. As soon as he has hold of the bottle, Tommy shifts back, cataloguing it as though nothing ever happened. "I think cats are just like that," he continues with a grin. "When they like you, they're going to claim you—whether _you_ like it or not."

While Tommy's ability to shapeshift has always seemed a little fantastical when they were kids, Oliver doesn't really even think about it anymore. It's a part of who he is, not unlike having brown eyes and dark hair. Since he's been back from the island, though, the vampire has had even less trouble accepting the impossible than he did before. "You've gotten better at shifting," he can't help but note to his best friend, a hint of pride touching his voice as he finishes up the last of his thermos of blood he started last night.

To his surprise, Tommy smiles, too. "I guess I've finally learned to accept I'm a freak of nature," he answers with a laugh. He throws another grin the archer's way. "After all, if my best friend can handle being a vampire, I can handle being a shifter." He tilts his head to the side. "Is it weird that I'm completely okay with you being a vampire but having a hard time accepting that you're the Vigilante?"

Oliver cracks a small smile at his best friend. "Not really," he assures him. "The supernatural has been your normal for a long time, Tommy." After all, his father, Malcolm had been a shapeshifter, too, and had spent their childhood shifting for laughs until Tommy's mom had died and he left. In a very rare moment, the vigilante allows himself a smile wide enough to flash his fangs. "I'm just glad I have someone to talk about this with—you must have felt pretty alone as a kid." He can't imagine what it must have been like to live in a world full of humans and know that you're nothing like the people around you.

"Never," Tommy answers on the heels of Oliver's words, his tone firm and confident, as if trying to assure his best friend of something. "You may not be a shifter, Ollie, but you've been really cool about what I am— _who_ I am." He writes something down about the bottle of wine he pulled from the top shelf before adding, "Honestly? I'm kind of glad you're a vampire now so I can try to be the same friend to you that you were to me through all those years."

Though the change in conversation is probably going to become more serious, Oliver can't stop himself from asking, "Have you told Laurel yet?" It's one of the biggest surprises in his life that after being gone for ten years, he came back to thfind that his best friend and his ex-girlfriend had been together for the last three years or so. They seem to be happy together, and while Oliver will probably always be in love with her, he knows that it can't happen now. Not with his immortality issues; it wouldn't be fair to either of them.

Despite that, Tommy still hasn't told her about his ability to shapeshift—or the impossibly long life span that comes with his own situation. While Oliver understands his dilemma, he knows that Tommy won't be truly happy with Laurel until he stops lying to her by omission. Already the archer can tell by his best friend's sigh what the answer will be. "No," he says in a flat tone. "I know it's crazy, but what if it freaks her out enough to leave?"

"Then she doesn't deserve you," the vigilante answers in a tone to mirror Tommy's own. Perhaps it's oversimplifying the issue, but his ability to shift shouldn't affect their relationship in any way—not if Laurel loves him as much as she says she does. It should be another fact about him to file away with clinical detachment, not a reason to leave. "I know it's easy for me to say that," Oliver tacks on, "but it's the truth, Tommy."

Though he says it aloud for his friend's comfort, the nagging part of Oliver reminds him that relationships between humans and Myths, as Tommy calls immortal creatures like the two of them, always seem to end tragically somehow. Tommy's dad spent a lifetime mourning Rebecca's death, and when he died in the earthquake, it was no doubt still heartbroken from his wife's murder. And then Shado and Slade had loved each other so intensely and so completely, only to end with her crying over his lifeless body. It had changed her, hardened her after that, and Oliver remembers her saying to him once, _For creatures like us, Oliver, loving a human is deadlier than a bullet to the brain._

Perhaps immortality is empty, then, but at least he has an infinite amount of time to find someone.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Tommy adds in a soft voice, "And then I'm worried what happens to us in the long run. I'll live forever, Ollie, but she won't." He shakes his head before scratching at one of his slender, pointed ears. He's always had them, and Oliver just assumes they're a feature unique to shapeshifters. "I feel like there's always a clock ticking in the background somewhere."

"There always is," the archer answers, finding truth in it. "Tommy, we might be _able_ to live forever, but that doesn't mean we _will_." Because despite being immortal, the two of them aren't invincible, and Oliver's chances of dying young are much higher than a human's with his given line of work. But the island gave him the ability to see beyond the ticking clock—to live for today and hope for tomorrow. "But it isn't about that. Life is too short not to love someone, however short a time." Despite the curse of their relationship, both Slade and Shado had the opportunity to love completely, without reservation or jealousy. Maybe there's a piece of salvation in that, too.

Tommy scoffs at him, turning to humor when the subject cuts so close to home. "When did you get so wise, Ollie? Did you meet Yoda on that island or something?" He cracks a smile, and Oliver returns it with a smaller one, though just as genuine. "You're starting to sound like a one-woman kind of guy, and we both know that's not your speed."

It still isn't his way. At first when he arrived home, Oliver found women in clubs not unlike Verdant, until he found little interest in it. Indiscriminate sex had been a way of lashing out as a teenager, but now he just finds it tiresome to strike up the same conversation every night, to manipulate variations of the same women to invite him home for the night. Perhaps it's not satisfying in the same way, but at least he feels like, by donning the hood, he's giving his life meaning somehow, whereas meaningless sex just feels pointless at the end of the day.

Taking mock offense, Oliver straightens a little on the bar stool before saying, "I could be—if I found the right woman." He can't even say it with a straight face; there's no question that Oliver is never going to be the type to settle down. The motto of his youth had been something along the lines of _live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse_. Though he's mellowed somewhat, it still isn't that far off the mark with the dangerous stunts he pulls. And Oliver isn't going to bring _anyone_ he cares about into this life of dangerous but meaningful work.

Snorting, Tommy answers, "She'd have to be one hell of a woman, Ollie."

* * *

It takes Oliver about a week to find the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity, cornering Thea in the hall of the mansion one day after managing to get away from his bodyguard for a few moments. He expected that he'd never see his feline companion again after that first night, but instead, the beast had been waiting for him in front of the locked door the next night, staring at him with those too-intelligent eyes and its head cocked to the side. It hasn't missed a night since, sometimes yowling at the door after he's already arrived and sometimes already there waiting for him.

Despite his initial hesitance to somewhat adopt a cat—the same creature that he spends most nights trying to avoid—the cat in question is more companion than pet. He doesn't feed it and it doesn't try to steal food from him when he brings down food from the Big Belly Burger several blocks away. It rarely demands attention from him other than when he first arrives. And, more surprisingly, it usually follows him on patrol, sometimes lending assistance in the form of distracting guards and, one very interesting occasion, gouging a man's eyes out when Oliver was pinned down.

And, when he had been hit with one of Deadshot's poisoned bullets a few nights ago, it had stayed with him, curling up against his side with wide, alert eyes as he slept off the effects of the curare.

Now, however, his curiosity has the better of him, and he knows just who to ask. "Hey, Thea," he calls after his sister, who whirls in place to stare at Oliver. He holds up his phone, smiling at his sister. "I was going to get food the other night, and I saw a different kind of cat." He flicks through his photos to the one he took of it last night, lounging in front of the doorway. "I haven't seen one like it before, and I wondered if you can tell me what it is." He holds out the phone for her to take.

Studying it after zooming in and out on the screen, Thea squints at it with that same sort of excitement lighting up her face that he sees when she talks about the shelter. "Do you know if it's a tom or a queen?" she asks him, never looking away from the picture.

"What?" The words are nothing more than nonsense to him, things that he doesn't understand.

Only then does Thea look up. "A male cat is called a tom," she explains, "and a female cat is called a queen. Do you know if this one is male or female?"

"No idea," Oliver answers truthfully. Friendly or not, it's a feral cat, which makes it unpredictable. If he started poking around to try and determine sex, he has no idea how it would respond, and his sister has enough scars up and down her arms from pissed off, ten-pound housecats to let him know that he does _not_ want to anger a beast that probably weighs eighty pounds or so. With the truth, he adds a lie: "I didn't get close enough to tell."

Thea frowns a little before responding, "From the picture, it looks like a longhair torbie of some sort." His brow furrows at the information, and she clarifies for him. "'Torbie' is short for tortoiseshell tabby. It's hard to tell from the picture, but if it is, it's probably a female—it takes two X chromosomes to be a tortoiseshell or a calico. Sometimes things go wrong and you can get an XXY-male, but those are pretty rare." She shrugs self-consciously at Oliver's raised eyebrows. "What? I paid attention in the genetics section of biology. It doesn't bore me to tears."

After taking a moment to digest that information, Oliver hedges, "It was a pretty big cat. Is there any way to tell what breed it is?"

His sister stares at it a moment longer before answering, "Usually we can't really tell cat breeds unless they've come from a breeder. So we just call them by their coat—this one is a domestic longhair of some sort. But if it's big, it could part Maine Coon. They can usually hit twenty, twenty-five pounds. They're usually pretty nice, too."

Oliver bites back a snort. "This one was bigger than that," he says instead, furrowing his brow in confusion that isn't all just show. "It was probably eighty pounds or more—and it has fangs." He points to the picture, zooming in to show her the proof of that. "I thought it was a wild cat of some kind."

It's Thea's turn to frown. "That's weird," she says aloud, her brow furrowing as she stares at the picture. "If it's that big, it's probably a wild cat of some sort, but it has markings like a housecat." She frowns at him, handing back the phone. "Maybe it's a hybrid of some sort. I've never heard of one that size, but it could happen." With a smile, she adds, "We had a few wire-haired boxer puppies in the shelter a few weeks ago because a breeder's full-grown boxer was in heat and their less-than-twenty-pound terrier mounted it." She flashes him a devious smile. "Stranger things have happened."

Smiling too, Oliver can't help but agree; after all, he's a vampire, his best friend is a shapeshifter, and he seems to have been adopted by a wild cat. If that's a possibility in the universe, then everything else by association isn't so strange. "Thank you for looking into it, though," he answers, bending over to kiss her forehead, causing his sister to beam in return.

He's already moving by the time she calls out behind him, "You can thank me in chocolate and a clothing allowance!"

Ignoring her, Oliver makes his way down to the foyer, where Walter is sitting and reading the financial section of the newspaper. It's a little surreal at times, Oliver can't help but think; his father has been dead a long time, but yet he didn't expect to come home and find his mother four years into a marriage with another man. Robert might have been legally dead for six years by then, but somehow Oliver still can't picture his mother with anyone else. Yet Walter is still sitting in the foyer, relaxed and at home.

Just this one instance, however, Oliver knows how to best use Walter's presence to his advantage. After all, the vigilante has an assassin's laptop burning a hole on his desk in the base, and he doesn't have a clue how to get anything from it. Surely the CFO knows a few IT experts at Queen Consolidated who can help him, hopefully without asking questions since Oliver's last name is on the side of the building. Discretion, however, is another matter entirely.

"Walter," he starts without preamble, scratching his head and donning perhaps a more mature variant of his pre-island persona that they've come to expect. "I bought a new laptop last week and was trying to set it up last night." Oliver shifts in place for show. "Only problem is, it's been so long since I had one that I don't know how to do anything with it now. Is there anyone you can think of that I could go see at the office who might be able to help me with it?"

Though Walter looks up at him, it's more out of courtesy than surprise or deep thought. "Felicity Smoak," he says without reservation, and the mention of the name pulls a smile out of the usually reserved Englishman for some reason. "My computer crashed after a corrupted update last year, and most of our technicians were baffled. I managed to catch her when I called down to the office one day, and she had it repaired in a couple of hours." Then he flips the page of the newspaper. "If you're having problems, Oliver, I would recommend going to see her on the eighteenth floor."

Just as he finishes his sentence, one John Diggle rounds the corner, finally catching up to Oliver after he ditched the bodyguard nearly two hours ago. Still, there are some conversations that Diggle doesn't need to hear, and Oliver doesn't like being watched all over his own home; it makes him feel like he's a rat in a cage, and the survivor has had enough of cages for one lifetime. "Thanks, Walter. I appreciate your help," Oliver says, which earns him a nod in return.

Then he pats Diggle's arm in more taunt than anything as he brushes past the bodyguard. "Follow me, Mr. Diggle—we have somewhere to be today."

* * *

Of all the things he expected this morning when he woke up, Oliver did _not_ anticipate Felicity Smoak in any way, shape, form, or fashion. When the tech points him toward her office after he ditches his bodyguard, the billionaire refrains from asking the clerk if he's sure he has the right person. While it's probably his own stereotypes at work, but he had a certain idea about a woman who would work in IT, and she doesn't meet his image in any way.

Though it's inappropriate, he can't help but study her for a brief moment, watching her swivel the desk chair between one side of her wraparound desk to the other, a red pen stuck between bright fuchsia lips, a shade he might have considered garish on anyone else. But somehow it just seems to… _fit_ her somehow, just like the long, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, her square-framed glasses, and the turquoise polish on her short fingernails.

On anyone else, he would probably think the simple white button-down paired with a purple skirt and bright yellow heels was some sort of attention-seeking getup, but it's clear by her focus on the work at hand that the woman before him does _not_ dress to attract attention, but as a way of expressing herself in what he imagines to be a very uncreative, logical profession.

After a moment, Oliver manages to find his voice again, shifting the laptop to his other hand so he can knock on the door frame. She jumps at the sound as he calls out, tentative, "Felicity Smoak?"

Her mouth falls open, forgetting the red pen for a moment but catching it before it tumbles to the floor. Color rises to her face in embarrassment, and he shouldn't find that as intriguing as he does. Her mouth opens several times, but no words come out. Though it's unnecessary, he adds to fill the silence, "I'm Oliver Queen."

That seems to give the ability to speak back to her. "I know who you are," she answers in assurance, in a tone that makes him think that, if she were the kind of person to say _duh_ , that would have been the moment she chose to do so. Her brown eyes feel as though they're seeing through him for an uncomfortably long moment before she tacks on in an almost frantic tone, "I mean, how could I _not?_ You're"—she waves her hands wide with a grand gesture—" _Mr. Queen_." She says it with emphasis, as though it's something sacred.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but he manages to contain the smile. Despite his control over his own features, Oliver can't keep the thought that accompanies it from escaping: _How is this woman even real?_ She's not even trying (God help him if she ever does), but he finds the honesty in her speech both intriguing and refreshing. Despite that, he can't allow her to call him _Mr. Queen_. "No," he cuts across it, dismissing the thought as quickly as he can. "'Mr. Queen' was my father. I'm just Oliver."

"But he died," she blurts. Under different circumstances, it might offend him, but the wince that follows behind her words assures him it was a verbal gaffe and nothing more. And the idea of her blurting out her thoughts by accident captivates him in its own way; even now, he lacks that kind of rare honesty in his world. "I mean," she tries to recover, "he drowned."

When she winces this time, a flash of frustration follows—aimed at herself, not him. "But you _didn't_ , which is why you can come to the IT department and listen to me attempt to get myself fired. And I am going to string together a coherent sentence in three… two… one." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before flashing him a sunny smile. "So, just Oliver, what can I do for you?"

This time he can't contain the smile, breaking so wide across his face that he flashes her his fangs, which she doesn't seem to notice. "I seem to be having some trouble with my computer," Oliver manages to say, though his voice comes out with an uncontained, breathy laugh. She holds out her hand for it, and he slips the laptop into her hands. "If there's anything you can do to salvage it, I would really appreciate it." Wanting to say more but unsure of what to say, he struggles for an explanation, leaping at the first one he can think of. "I was surfing the web and I spilled a latte on it."

His cover story is shot to hell, though, the moment she opens the lid. The vigilante expects her to balk at the sight before her, but Felicity doesn't even flinch. " _Really_ ," she drawls in a sarcastic tone as she circles a bullet hole in the screen. "Because, see, these look like bullet holes." Oliver opens his mouth to spout another lie, but the blonde actually holds up her hand to stop him, staring up at him while pushing her glasses up her nose. "Spare me another blatantly obvious lie, Oliver." She huffs out a breath in frustration, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "I don't know what this is about, but I know enough not to ask any questions. Instead of telling me that your coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood, maybe you could tell me what you want off of this thing."

Making the decision to trust her is a difficult, complicated one, but after a long moment, he finally admits, "I just need to know what's on it first, please. We'll go from there." Motioning to the chair next to her, Oliver asks, "Is it okay if I…?" For some reason, hesitance makes him trail off, though it would be a simple sentence to finish.

Felicity throws him a blinding smile, as though he hadn't just lied to her earlier. He wonders what it would be like to have that kind of faith in the world. Oliver isn't sure if he ever has. "Of course," she assures him, waving a hand toward it. Even better is the fact she doesn't try to make small talk as she plugs up the laptop to a screen, instead biting her lip and drumming her fingers against the desk. It's clear that she's dying to talk to him, but has no idea what to say.

Deciding to take mercy on her, Oliver finally says, "Thank you, Felicity." Something in his tone makes her turn around to stare at him, blinking several times. The quiet that follows makes him fidget in place just a little; he didn't say anything _too_ ridiculous. To escape it, he tacks on, "For not asking questions." _For giving me reason to trust you_ , he wants to add, but that makes it seem too real.

One corner of her mouth tilts upward in a small, tentative smile. "'Theirs not to question why, / Theirs but to do or die,'" she says with meter, as though reciting a poem. The billionaire can only blink at her several times. Felicity just looks at him for a moment. "I guess you're not a Tennyson fan, then." When he shakes his head, she waves a hand in dismissal. "It's from 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'—which is kind of a guy poem, so I took a swing and completely missed." She waves a hand again, and he makes note of the poem for later because she's piqued his curiosity. "The point is that it's my job to fix computers, not to ask questions." She waves her hands yet another time, the motion stiff and awkward now. "Which you probably already guessed. And I'm babbling again."

Because he can hear the apology in her tone and the _last_ thing he wants her to do is apologize, Oliver assures her in a tone even he can't decipher, "Maybe, but I like hearing your voice." A light dusting of color appears across her cheeks, and too late he realizes that his tone might be construed as flirty. In an attempt to cover any awkwardness between them, he adds, "It's nice to have a conversation without being asked questions about the island."

It might be the worst thing about coming home; someone is always wanting him to open up about the island, to talk about what he's survived. Though he knows they mean well, that they think opening up will help him heal after his ordeal, being reminded of what he did during that time only reminds him of the monster he was forced to become to survive—the one he's trying to escape from.

"Well, to be fair," Felicity allows as the laptop's password box opens, "I _did_ mention it once, but it was an accident." Without asking him for the password, she somehow brings up another screen, typing a string of white letters and code into a black box as if she was born knowing how to do it. "But if you're talking about your family, they have the right to ask you about those kinds of things. I barely know you, and something tells me that isn't considered light, first conversation material."

Oliver chuckles at that, the sound light and breathy, and it causes the corners of the blonde's mouth to twist upward in response. "But, to be honest," she continues, "I probably wouldn't ask anyway. For things like that, I think it's better to let people talk about them on their own schedule." She waves a hand before going back to typing code. "I think you're probably a great listener, but I don't exactly want to talk about my dad bailing out on me and my mom when I was six with _you_ , either."

The new information that she's given him gives him something to think about, and Oliver decides that maybe the reason that everyone wants him to open up is because they don't consider their own secrets, their thoughts that they don't want to share with anyone. Felicity Smoak, however, seems to think about that as she talks to him. "I'm sorry," he offers in a low voice, low enough that if she doesn't want to address it, she can pretend she didn't hear him. But the blonde turns to look at him with raised eyebrows, so he clarifies after fidgeting a little, "About your dad."

To his surprise, she offers him a slight smile, something in her expression making him feel that she just gave him a test—and he passed with flying colors. "Thanks," she answers, just as quiet. Then she returns, "I'm sorry about the island." It isn't just a hollow statement; Oliver can tell by the sympathy in her tone that she's genuine. Then she shrugs. "My mom always says that we're never given a situation that we can't handle, that doesn't make us stronger for having lived through it."

The words come out of his mouth before Oliver makes the conscious decision to answer: "I think I could afford to be underestimated a little." At first it startles him and he wishes he hadn't spoken, but Felicity's laugh makes him glad he did. Her smile is so wide it flashes teeth, and the archer sobers and freezes as he sees them. There's no way to make sense of the sight before him, but yet he can't ignore the evidence.

Because Felicity's canines are just as elongated as _his_.

There's nothing about the woman that indicates vampire; the clear thermos on her desk is filled with water, and the smell of blood doesn't cling to her the way it does him. In fact, the only note of a smell he can pick up under her perfume and scented hair products is something light and perhaps a little woodsy—pine laced with cinnamon and a sweeter note not unlike vanilla. If she _is_ a vampire, she's adept at hiding it, which makes him think she might be much older than him. Only now does he give any notice to the dark roots in her blonde hair, wondering if she's starting a new life—something he'll have to do at some point, as well.

Oblivious to his startled, raging thoughts, Felicity laughs at his answer. "That's what _I_ said," the blonde replies with a smile. Her lips pull together a little tighter afterward, as though she's aware of the misstep she just made, but the moment fades otherwise as Oliver pulls his expression back into place. She turns as if to look at him when he doesn't speak, but then the computer's screen catches her attention.

"Oh, I'm in," the blonde informs him. She's lost to him for a moment then, delving back into a world of ones and zeroes that he can't even begin to comprehend. Squinting at the results of her work, the blonde decides after a moment, "Looks like there isn't much on this laptop, Oliver." She scrolls through the list. "The emails seem to be encrypted, as does most of the data, but… there's an image file on here that I can open right away." After a set of clicks, a white, mechanical design opens, set on a blue background. At the same time Oliver realizes it, Felicity says, "It looks like blueprints."

After rising from his chair, he pulls it just to the right of hers so he can see the screen better, staring at the designs over her shoulder. After squinting at it for a moment, he decides that the building is familiar but not enough that he can place it. Leaning closer to her, he asks, "Do you know what of?" Because she's reaching to adjust her glasses at the same time he startles her with his close proximity, Felicity's hand brushes the corner of her eye. "I didn't mean to startle you," Oliver adds with a frown, his voice laced with apology.

The blonde rubs at her eye for a moment before answering, propping her glasses on her head to better reach and what must be a brown color contact. When she blinks, it moves just enough to flash him a hint of blue underneath. After a moment of staring at it, the vigilante decides that it probably has something to do with that dyed hair and pointed teeth; perhaps it's part of her attempt to hide the fact she's at a standstill in a world that constantly changes—an anomaly, just like him.

"No, you're fine," Felicity assures him as she situates her glasses again, the contact situated again. "You just startled me because you're so quiet." It sounds complimentary, but at the same time, Oliver isn't quite sure. She turns to throw him a mischievous grin before adding, "Are you part panther?" It isn't too far off the mark, when he thinks about it; after all, he _is_ designed to be a predator—both by vampire nature and the one he was made into on the island. But neither of them are a threat to her now.

"I think you missed a calling as a private investigator," she continues, oblivious to his inner musings. Again she's too close to the mark for his comfort; little does she know he spends his nights as the Vigilante. "Of course, it would be kind of a waste to go into a profession where you'd have to hide _that_ face." This time he expects it when she cringes at her words. "And I did _not_ mean to say that aloud."

Because he's unable to resist taunting the blonde, against his better judgment, he answers, "I feel the same way about your eye color." She turns to him, eyes widening, as he allows, "The _real_ one. You have beautiful eyes." The words come out in a tone Oliver does _not_ want to define, and there's nothing he can do to relieve the sudden intensity between them. All at once she seems far too close for comfort, and the same eyes he complimented seem too insightful to be staring at him that way; it's as though he's laid bare for her, and it's not a comfortable feeling.

"Blueprints," Felicity almost squeaks, turning away as her turquoise fingernails adjust the collar of her dress shirt. The dusting of color on her face lets Oliver know that he wasn't the _only_ one to sense the moment that just passed between the two of them. "You asked me about blueprints," she clarifies, though it's unnecessary. "It looks like the exchange building where the Unidac auction is going to take place tomorrow night. QC is competing for it, but it looks like…" She squints at the registration she's pulled up on the device as she's been speaking. "Warren Patel probably wants both it and his laptop back." There's no judgment in the words, just statement of fact, and, true to her word, she doesn't ask—even though Oliver can tell it's on the tip of her tongue to say _something_. After a moment she settles on, "I can try to decrypt the emails, if you want, but it's going to take a while."

"No," Oliver assures her, "you've done enough already." Fighting back the hint of dark humor so it doesn't show on his face, he adds, "I'll make sure Mr. Patel gets his laptop back—I'd hate for him to lose it." He must not succeed because the archer _swears_ he sees a shiver pass through her as she shuts it down, preparing to give it back to him. Running his palms across his thighs, he asks, "What do I owe you for doing this, Felicity?"

To his surprise, she actually looks _insulted_ by the thought. "If you'll let me keep my job after spouting too many inappropriate things, we'll call it even," Felicity assures him, though the tilt at the corner of her mouth shows that she knows Oliver has long since forgiven her—especially since it provided such a wonderful change of pace from his usual conversations with people.

Though he hesitates to do it, after a moment, he lets his hand linger on her arm. "Then thank you, Felicity," the billionaire answers, taking the laptop from her extended hand. She flinches a little at the contact, but the smile on his face lets her know it isn't unwelcome, but instead surprised her. "If there's anything I can do to help you, let me know." Whether or not she wanted payment, it's a hold-over from the island that Oliver doesn't like leaving a debt unpaid.

Again she does what he doesn't expect when she replies, "Likewise. If you ever need any computer help, you know where to find me." Her mouth quirks up into another sunny smile. "And if I ever need the help of a billionaire for something I'll call—" She trails off, waving a hand. "Well, I don't have your number, but if it's _that_ important, I'll just hack into phone records and pull it." She bites her lip then, her eyes going as wide as his at her admission. "Which I would absolutely never do."

Because teasing her has been so much fun, Oliver can't resist doing it once more. His lips turn upward ever so slightly as he reaches across her for the red pen she had her lips wrapped around when he walked in, jotting down his cell phone number in a very shaky print. "Use your powers for good instead of evil," is the only explanation he gives her—advice he's trying to take himself. He knows better than to ask for hers in return; if she's trying to stay off the radar, asking her would only make her uncomfortable. From there, he walks out of the room, calling behind him, "I'll see you around, Felicity."

Felicity offers a flustered response behind him, but he doesn't turn around as he walks out. Some of the IT department employees stare at him as he passes by, so he averts his eyes and walks past as though he doesn't notice. He catches sight of one of the glass walls along the way, and in the reflection, he watches the blonde collapse onto her desk, rubbing at her temples as her mouth moves as though she's talking to herself.

For the first time in ten years, Oliver laughs aloud.

* * *

 **Notes:** You survived it. Have a virtual cookie—you earned it.

This is just part one. Part two comes next week.


	2. But Satisfaction Brought It Back

**Part: 2 - ...But Satisfaction Brought It Back  
Word Count: 13,153  
**

 **Notes:** First of all, the response to this last week was overwhelming. You crazy cats (heh, pun) are the best for exploring all of this insanity with me. And very, very brave. :D

I'm sorry this is a little late in the day; I had most of it finished, but I've been sick this week. Which means I spent about two days going to class and then sleeping instead of writing. That and this chapter turned out to be about 4,000 words longer than intended. But I don't think anyone will complain about that. ;)

Again, because I was sick, I probably haven't replied to any comments since Sunday. That's the next item on this agenda. I haven't forgotten you.

As always, thank you for just making it through this monstrosity. If you choose to share words of wisdom with me, thanks again. :)

* * *

By the time Oliver arrives at the base on the bike, Diggle is already there, standing next to his SUV with a glare that lands on the archer as soon as he walks up. Since Diggle tried to stop the fighting when things ended with Deadshot, he offered his bodyguard a place on the team. It took him a while to come around, but finally he seems to have accepted work as Oliver's backup in the field.

Now, however, the vigilante is starting to think that he might have bitten off more than he can chew.

"I gave you the code," Oliver uses as greeting as the night air whips through the alleyway. Judging by the way Digg burrows deeper into his coat, it's likely cold, but the archer hasn't felt the cold in a very long time, and he isn't sure whether to attribute that to a decade spent on a cold, rainy island or his newfound life as a vampire—something he hasn't told his new partner about and isn't sure he intends to.

Diggle nods toward the door in response, and when Oliver makes sense of the outline, he frowns. "That cougar was sitting here when I showed up," he says, motioning toward the large, tortoiseshell cat lounging in front of the door, ears back in warning as her blue-green eyes follow the ex-sergeant's every move. "I tried to run it off, but it just started growling and hissing. I'm probably going to have to shoot the damn thing."

The cat responds with a screech that turns into a low growl as Oliver's irritation turns into something darker and colder. "I'm glad you didn't," he admits to his new partner, moving for the door. "Because I would have hated to put an arrow in you over a cat." John offers a cry of protest as the archer moves toward his self-appointed guardian, nudging the cat away with a foot. She rises and brushes against his leg in greeting as he absently types in the code with one hand while scratching her ears with the other.

As the door opens, Diggle snorts. "Never did figure you for the kind of guy to own a pet," he quips.

Almost as if in offense, the pet in question hisses, ears still lying flat on her head. He doesn't know animals well and he never had pets as a kid, but the archer has come to the slow conclusion that her ears lying flat means she's pissed off. "Be nice," Oliver mutters to her under his breath, but she's already halfway down the staircase by then. To his new partner, he motions toward the door while saying, "She's a wild animal, Digg. That cat isn't _anyone's_ pet." He snorts, fondness mixing with amusement. "She just adopted me—whether I wanted her to or not."

"Sounds like someone else I know," the older man remarks, his answer as laconic and cryptic as ever. He'd never admit it, but Oliver rather likes that quality about him. As the archer follows him down the stairs, the ex-military man asks, "You call it a she?"

Nodding mostly to himself, the archer answers with trepidation, "According to Thea, tortoiseshell cats are usually queens—apparently that's what a female cat is called." The terminology feels odd in his mouth, so he shrugs it off. "There's something about genetics and X-chromosomes, but I made a D in tenth grade biology."

Because he knows what to address and what to leave alone, Diggle sidesteps the mention of Oliver's past, raising an eyebrow. "Usually?" he repeats. "You mean you aren't sure." There would be a question in the sentence for anyone else, but he's already come to the correct conclusion.

Leveling a look at his new partner, Oliver answers, "She's a feral cat. She tolerates me sometimes and bites me when she doesn't." He reaches for two of the training sticks on the wall, throwing one at his new partner. Because if they're going to work together in the field, the archer is going to learn how Digg fights and what to expect when they fight together. "I'm not going to lose a hand just because I want to know what sex she is." As Diggle catches the thrown pole, the archer adds with a hint of amusement, "But if you want to try, be my guest."

"I'll take your word for it," the smart man replies, gripping the stick in his hands and experimenting with it while breathing a laugh so soft it's more seen than heard. "And here I thought I was gonna have too much on my plate with just _one_ Queen." This time he doesn't bother to hide his grin, and Oliver decides his first mission of the night is going to be to wipe it off his friend's face. "You two are a lot alike. Feral, moody, stubborn, with nasty tempers and a vindictive streak. You know what they say about pets taking after their owners." He motions to the weapon in his hands. "We going to get a few rounds in?"

Oliver nods in response, stripping off his shirt and taking off his shoes before making his way onto the firm mats not much softer than the concrete underneath. "If we're going to work together, I need to know how you fight so I can compensate. The best way to do that is practice." Diggle steps forward and does the same while the cat sits down at the edge of the mat, staring between the two of them with its tail flicking in the air.

The first thing he learns about his new partner is that John Diggle is quiet in a fight. He doesn't say anything else, getting into position before they start circling each other on the mats. For a moment they do nothing but circle, but Oliver is starting to realize that Digg is a man of almost infinite patience, and he'll wait forever for his opponent to make the first move. Though immortal, the archer isn't as ready to wait until the end of eternity for a strike, but that doesn't make him a stupid fighter who rushes into something he can't predict.

So when Oliver strikes, he does so in a slow motion, just to see how his sparring partner reacts. His reaction time is solid, catching the blow with his own stick and attempting to retaliate. The archer blocks it with ease as he spots a weak spot in John's defense, spinning seconds later to catch him in the left side with the stick.

Even though he knows he held back, it's definitely going to bruise. The sharp blow pulls a grunt out of Diggle, and Oliver turns and walks back to their starting positions while calling over his shoulder, "Never leave yourself open to strike a blow." He steps back into place, waiting for his partner to do the same. "If you always assume your opponent is smarter and faster than you, you'll be less likely to get killed."

They progress like that, Diggle landing a few hits here and there, with Oliver being the one to deal the most damage while pointing out various mistakes. It isn't that they aren't similarly matched; it's that the archer has seen a lot of military men fight over the last ten years. Though John isn't as rigid as some of the others, the vampire still understands his style, the standard training lying underneath it all.

However, John Diggle isn't a rigid fighter; he's intelligent and adaptable, learning from his mistakes. By the time the two of them finish an hour on the mats, sweating and tired, the former soldier is dangerously close to giving as good as he gets. While Oliver likes the dependability of having someone like that as backup, it still doesn't change one minor problem.

Oliver Queen is a sore loser.

It's something he freely admits about himself: if he's going to compete at something, he's going to do his best to win and God help anyone who tries to stop him. Part of it comes from the island, perhaps; there, if he didn't win, it meant he was as good as dead. But he knows that it's always been a part of him, buried deep within at times. The island didn't make him into something new—it only stripped away all the things he wasn't.

Because the possibility of defeat is on the table, Oliver gives a short, single-note whistle as he blocks Digg's hit. The bodyguard's eyes narrow as he stares at his sparring partner in confusion, but he doesn't have to wait long for an explanation. They've never done it before, so it shouldn't work, but there's a small sound of warning before a tortoiseshell tabby goes flying through the air, knocking Digg to the ground when she catches him by surprise.

She perches atop him as though she's won some sort of prize, tail flicking through the air all the while, and one corner of Oliver's mouth turns up at the sight. Diggle only stares at the wild cat, watching it with wariness in his eyes. "Thanks for telling your pet demon cat to eat me," he says with a frown, concern all through his features. Her ears fall back and she lets out a soft growl in warning.

If Oliver was the kind of person to roll his eyes, he would do so at the tone. "If she was going to hurt you," the archer answers as he places the stick back on the wall, "she wouldn't have made any noise and she would have her claws out." He's seen too many times what happens when she attacks, and this is her playful side, not her violent side. To her, he says, "Go on—you've had your fun." She stares at him in a moment, as if in defiance, before hopping off her victim as though nothing ever happened. Oliver extends a hand to help him up. "Never think the only opponent is the one in front of you." He smiles. "Or human. I've watched her do some damage on the street."

The military man takes the extended hand with a grim smile. "I'll bet you have," is all he answers, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. "I wouldn't be surprised if that thing was part tiger. Or angry bear." Diggle holds up his hands. "I think I've gotten my ass kicked enough times for one night." He walks away for one of the towels on the bottom rack of the gurney, but first the corner of his mouth turns up and he whistles.

Without anything to put between himself and the lioness-at-heart, Oliver knows he doesn't have enough warning to keep himself from hitting the mats. Sure enough, she pounces at him with a wicked sound of mischief. The momentum is enough to send him falling backward, crashing against the mats as the breath leaves him for a moment. Her paws press hard into his chest, the cat spanning the length of him and staring at him with wild, blue-green eyes, as if waiting for a response.

"Good to know you don't play favorites," is all he says, long sense accustomed to the idea of talking to his wild-yet-tame cat. Before, it felt ridiculous, but after she started being his only company in the base for so long, it seems odd for him _not_ to talk to her now. Her head tilts to the side and her ears twitch at his words, studying him in that way animals always seem to do, and he scratches behind her ears to let her know she's forgiven before giving her a shove to get her to move.

Of course she stays in place, but the way she rubs her head under his chin is unexpected, as is the vibrating feeling against his chest as she nuzzles him—a rare occasion of her purring. He rarely ever hears her—it's more feeling than hearing. "You're not in trouble," Oliver assures the cat, brushing away this new affection as he tries to nudge her away, but his feral cat isn't having it. "But you might be if you start taking orders from Digg."

"I don't think you have to worry about that, man," John answers with a note of humor in his voice. "She's yours, no questions. I think that cat has ulterior motives. Looks like she just tackled you to get some attention." His tone changes, more curiosity shining through. "Where'd you say you found your kitten?"

Oliver nudges the rather determined cat away, absently scratching her ears after he rises to a sitting position. Something catches under his fingertips, and he turns to her in surprise to study it. Two almost symmetrical tears are in the top of her right ear—probably the result of a fight with another cat. Still, he doesn't expect it; she's never seemed to pick a fight with any cats before. He rubs at the spot—much to her pleasure, judging by the loud purring—as he answers Diggle's question: "She found _me_. Followed me around all night and then attacked a cop who tried to arrest me."

The former sergeant's eyebrows go up, but his attention is caught by the book Oliver left on the desk a few weeks ago, the ribbon marker still in place on the page he last visited. "Never figured you for a poetry guy," Digg comments, though there's no judgment in his tone. He turns to the marked page. "Or a poetry guy who reads Tennyson."

Rising to his feet, Oliver answers, succinct as ever, "I'm not." It clearly isn't enough of an explanation for his new partner, and the archer decides to humor him just this once. "A friend mentioned it and I was curious, so I decided to read it," he adds, his tone dismissive, though Diggle doesn't seem to believe it. Under different circumstances, he'd probably feel insulted, but Oliver has always been better suited to less stationary activities than reading. He works best in motion.

"Interesting that they chose to mention a poem about war," Diggle answers, eyes traveling across the page as he reads it. His mouth comes up, his smile slight. "Isn't that kind of what you're doing here? Waging a war against the crime threatening this city? Sounds like they know you pretty well."

He's never thought about it, but now that his partner mentions it, Oliver has to admit that Felicity's choice of poetry fit so well that it's uncomfortable. But, then again, he thought she had an uncanny way of understanding him, though they had only just met. For the first time since he came home, the archer had felt like an open book, a fact which didn't scare him as much as he thought it would.

Finally, Oliver answers, "Maybe so."

* * *

Though immortality should have granted him infinite patience, Oliver still finds his knee bouncing as he sits in an empty chair in the IT department waiting for Felicity to show up. Diggle seems to handle it better, studying the room so well that he can probably recreate it from memory (and Oliver probably could, too), but the archer isn't as relaxed. Action is his element, but waiting only makes him nervous, and the stuttering tech who, to Oliver's best guess, is about twelve isn't helping things by asking every two minutes if he could get someone else to help the billionaire or if he could page Felicity for them.

He refuses the kid every time, though; Felicity has a job, after all, and he's not going to interrupt her when she's actually doing what she's _supposed_ to be doing when she isn't working as the unaware tech support to the Starling City Vigilante. He's visited her several times in the last few weeks for various tasks, but today marks the first time he's ever allowed John Diggle to come with him.

It probably doesn't help things that his vision is still swimming in and out from last night's experience with the Count, the man selling the newest recreational drug in Starling City, a substance called Vertigo that the man admitted killing people to perfect. Things had gone wrong, however, ending with Oliver getting a taste of the drug himself. Of all the things he'd gotten into before his ten years away from the island, drugs hadn't been one of them, and he has to admit the high wasn't all he expected it to be. It could be the fact the Count tried to overdose him with two doses that were nearly intracardiac, but either way, he's still feeling the after effects.

Before Oliver can get up and start pacing zig-zagged lines just for something to do, a very colorful whirlwind of blonde hair marches in, putting a hand to her head and making some sound between a sigh and a growl. Pointing at the twelve-year-old at the desk, she says in a tone that's probably put the fear of God into someone, "The next time Mr. Feinman has computer problems, _you_ are going to go sort it out." Running a hand through her hair, she adds, "Not only have I spent the last three hours crawling under a desk—in _this_ skirt, mind you—but I've also had to put up with his constant leering and hitting on me." She shudders. "If I wanted married men to stare at my ass and ask me out, I'd spend my nights at a skeevy bar."

Before the boy can answer, Felicity turns, pulling up short when she sees Oliver sitting there. Usually it pulls a smile out of her to see him, but today she only frowns, staring up at the ceiling as though begging for strength from some higher power. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Mr. Queen?" she drawls, sarcasm written all over her tone, even as she colors slightly. Diggle makes a sound like a laugh under his breath that Oliver doesn't appreciate, but something must show on his face because the blonde softens after a moment. "That came out harsher than I expected."

Oliver offers a wry smile. "Not thrilled to see me, then?" he tries to tease her, but it falls a little flat.

Despite his horrible attempt at humor, the blonde still throws him one of those tentative yet genuine smiles, the corners of her very pink mouth turning up just a little. "On a normal day, I'd be glad to see you here," Felicity assures him. "But the entire executive floor is conspiring against us this morning by destroying everything electronic they can find." She does another almost-growl that Oliver shouldn't find charming, but yet he still offers a small, lopsided smile. "I mean, cleaning out a paper jam in your printer is _not_ a valid reason to call me. I went to MIT, for God's sake."

Though he hates to do it, Oliver rises to his feet, reaching out for the arm of the chair to steady himself when everything spins a little. "If you're busy, I can come back later," he assures her. "I know you have more important things to do." That she actually gets paid for, too—he's tried to pay her multiple times, and yet she's always found a way to turn him down.

"Absolutely not," Felicity counters, sounding offended by the suggestion. "Trust me when I say that your visit is going to be a bright spot in an otherwise very bleak day." She motions toward the office with both hands in an exaggerated gesture. On anyone else it would seem awkward, but with her, it just seems to be part of her personality. "And I was waiting for introductions, but who is your slightly intimidating, gun-toting friend?"

Before Oliver can speak, Diggle takes up introductions on his own, smiling at her with the same observant gaze he seems to use on everyone. "John Diggle," he says, extending a hand to shake. She does so, but with a slight pause of hesitation. "I'm Oliver's bodyguard—when he's not ditching me, anyway."

Felicity's eyebrows draw together, and Oliver takes up the mantle to explain, "My mother was the one who hired Mr. Diggle, so technically, she's the only one who can fire him." He flashes her a smile, knowing she'll read the subtext there. "Mr. Diggle is a nice guy, but I don't need a babysitter. I think I've already proven I can survive on my own."

Digg's eyebrows shoot up at his casual mention of the island, but with Felicity, there's never any chance of her asking for details. Unlike everyone else, she simply takes what he gives her instead of pressuring him to open up. In a way, it makes him even more inclined to open up and talk to her.

She stops in front of the doorway to allow them access, John walking past her as she does a snort that his mother would probably call unladylike. Oliver, however, just finds it a very Felicity kind of reaction. "As if you need someone to protect you," she remarks in a way that's too accurate for comfort. Then she rushes on, waving a hand wildly in front of her with a cheeky grin. "I mean, no offense, but if anyone ever tried to kidnap you, they'd probably _pay_ to get rid of you after about twenty minutes."

Oliver offers a breathy laugh in response as he starts to enter her office, but his depth perception is off and his shoulder knocks against the door frame. Normally he wouldn't even flinch, but his balance is so tenuous that he lists to one side. Felicity's hand is on his shoulder immediately for support, her eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay?" the blonde asks, her voice going soft in her worry for him. "Because no offense, but you look like something the cat dragged in."

Again her statement is correct to a level that borders on uncanny. When he had been injected last night, Oliver and Diggle were separated in the fray. Because their plan is to meet up at base if anything happens, the archer had staggered back to the foundry, collapsing on the ground outside before he could get there. When Diggle had opened the door, it had been to watch their unofficial mascot attempt to drag him to the door by his hood. After he assured his partner he'd be fine, Digg had gone home for a few short hours of sleep, but the cat had stayed with him while he'd slept off yet another long-acting drug.

Apparently he _can_ sleep—but only when his blood is full of unwanted drugs.

This time he doesn't feel bad about his answer because it's not even a lie. "I'm just a little hungover," he admits as he steps forward again. Maybe he's imagining it, but her hand seems to linger on his arm until he reaches the chair, sinking into it with a wince as everything spins. Then he adds for effect, "I just hope Tommy is feeling this, too, since this is his fault."

Sliding back behind her desk, Felicity arches an eyebrow as she responds in a cheery voice, "Sounds like you need a bloody Mary and a pretzel instead of the IT department." When Diggle gives a silent laugh in response, she lifts a shoulder. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's the best hangover cure I've discovered. If a bloody Mary and a pretzel can't make it better, then nothing can. Kind of like mint chocolate chip ice cream, but instead of every day use, it's more exclusive to overindulgence."

Fighting a smile, Oliver pulls a sample of Vertigo out of his pocket, the same one the Count left in him last night. He's transferred it a vial since then so as to prevent arousing her suspicion any more than he already has, holding it up for her. "I know it's outside your area of expertise, but I need to know about what's in this, and you're the only person I know who wouldn't ask questions." Diggle's eyes go wide at the statement, but the blonde doesn't even blink.

Despite that, she does bite her lip before throwing him a frown. "Sure, let me just pull out my mass spectrometer and take care of this right now," she snaps, though she takes the vial from his hand. "Now even _you_ are giving me impossible tasks. I don't know how to do biological sciences, Oliver—I'm a computer technician. I might have entertained a career as a dental hygenist, but I'm not sure my extensive knowledge of white and pearlies is going to help you here."

Something brightens her expression at the end of that statement before she starts biting her lip again. "I have an idea, but you're not going to like it," she warns him. "I, um—" Wild hand motions go through the air for a moment. "I have this friend. It's a long story, but Barry is a forensic tech and he… well, he's done a few things under the radar for me before." Oliver's eyebrows shoot up; Felicity doesn't seem the type to _need_ things done quietly—not when she seems so above-board. For not the first time, he wonders what secrets Felicity Smoak hides behind that bubbly exterior. "If I asked, he would run it as a favor to me and he'd never know where it came from." Then she waves her hand again. "But I'd still be involving someone else, and I don't know how you'd feel about that."

Shifting in his seat, Oliver answers in the form of a question. "Are you sure he wouldn't say anything about this?"

In response, she rises from her chair, leaving the vial on the desk as she rounds it to lean against it, crossing one leg over the other, her now purple fingernails tapping against the top. There's a long pause before she finally decides to answer in a low voice, "Oliver, you've had hundreds of opportunities to throw me some fairly ridiculous lies, but you haven't. So I'm going to return the favor." She crosses her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from the sudden vulnerability. "Barry is one of the few people in the world that I completely trust. With _everything_." Her emphasis on that word doesn't escape him; whatever she isn't saying is buried there, indicating a closet full of skeletons that might compare to his own. "And he trusts me. So if I gave him this to analyze, he wouldn't say anything, if only because he wants keep me out of trouble." She shifts a little. "So I guess the question now is if you trust me enough not to say anything—and no judgment if you don't."

It's a difficult decision, one that Oliver weighs with serious thought. For some reason he doesn't understand, he's grown to trust Felicity over the last five visits. Part of it has to do with the way her words flow from her mouth without thought, displaying a rare sort of honesty that he's never seen before, and part of it has to do with the way she never pressures him for details he isn't willing to give.

Because of that, he finally answers, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision, "You have my number—let me know when you have the results." He rises from his chair, a choice that puts him closer to Felicity than he thought, so close he has to tilt his head down to look at her. Without permission, his hand reaches out to touch her arm. "Thank you for doing this. If there's anything I can do—"

The blonde flashes him a bright smile as she cuts him off with an assurance of, "You've already done it."

* * *

His rappelling is reckless on the grappling arrow, more so than usual. He crashes to the ground— _hard_ —and pain radiates through him, centering in the bullet that he knows went through an artery, judging by the blood spurting from the wound every time he feels his heart beat. There's no question that this isn't going to end well if he doesn't move fast. Still, every step is harder, more sluggish, and he knows that if something doesn't change soon, someone's going to find a dead vampire vigilante on the street.

And all because his _mother_ shot him.

Even now, he can't figure it; it was completely unnecessary. His bow was lowered. He _told her_ he wasn't going to hurt her. But yet she insisted upon trying to kill him anyway, indicating that maybe she was afraid to answer questions about one of her dubious employees, but he didn't even get _that_ far before she got the gun. In Oliver's experience, people only retaliate that way out of pure, unadulterated fear, meaning his mother might not be as innocent as he originally thought.

Stumbling and staggering, he picks up a familiar smell in the air—pine with spice and vanilla. It's too faint to be the woman herself, but if there's a hint of Felicity's unique signature on the air, it means her car is nearby; of that, the vigilante is certain. His eyes, adjusting to the low light, pick up a red Mini Cooper in the corner of the lot, and he pushes himself harder, moving toward it with the urgency of his situation while pulling his cell phone and a lockpick.

Breaking into her car isn't going to win any points, but in this moment, his most pressing concern is self-preservation. Though he's reticent to invade her privacy, his mother is no doubt going to send guards to comb through the parking lot. This is his only way to keep from being spotted—provided Felicity gets to her car in time.

The lock takes him far too long because his hands are shaking, but the car door pops open after a long battle against the tumblers. Crawling into the backseat of her half-a-car proves a challenge as well, but then he pulls himself in with a deep sigh, breath coming in hard pants as he locks the car back. Gritting his teeth, he pulls his jacket back to examine the wound, frowning when he realizes the bullet is still there. He'd thought it was a through-and-through, but apparently not.

After taking a moment to clench his jaw, Oliver digs his fingers into the gaping hole in his shoulder. While not exactly sanitary, he knows the bullet has to come out first before he can use blood to heal it, so he pushes his fingers deeper into the wound until he can feel something hard and circular. It takes him a moment to grasp it, but finally he's able to pull it out with trembling fingers.

The bleeding only worsens as he pulls the bullet out and takes a moment to throw it out the door. The bullet will only tie him back to the crime if he keeps it, and the blood forensics could take off of it wouldn't be his, anyway. After Ivo captured him and started doing research on his condition, he discovered that the DNA in his blood came from the same variety of species of dying animals Oliver drained to survive on the island. It has been a helpful fact for his work as the Vigilante; now, if the police discover his blood at a crime scene, the only person they can match it to is his donor.

Pressing his hand to the shoulder, the archer tries to stem the bleeding as he goes for his phone, first to call Felicity to warn her and then Diggle. It's barely in his hand before the locks unlatch again, his ears met with a heartbeat and the sound of heels on concrete drawing ever closer. He takes a deep breath of relief as she wrenches open the driver side door, oblivious to his presence, starting the car with a weary sigh as she throws her bag into the passenger seat without looking back.

In that moment, Oliver decides that if he lives, the two of them are going to have a serious discussion about safety precautions. Because she's a woman alone in an unforgiving city, and she should _at least_ be aware enough of her surroundings to realize someone is in the car with her. …And maybe the thought of anything happening to Felicity Smoak is impossible for him to even contemplate.

"Felicity," he croaks out in a whisper, and the blonde jumps as though he's zapped her with a taser. (But if his attentions had been sinister, he thinks bitterly, he could have without her noticing because _what kind of woman alone in the city doesn't check her damn car?_ ) Her brown eyes go wide in surprise as she turns to him, breath coming hard because he startled her.

"Oh my God," is her greeting to him, making no move to leave or dial 911 or anything, really.

Despite the potential of him dying in the back of her tiny car, Oliver very seriously considers taking that moment to lecture her about being aware of her surroundings and proper reactions to when strangers are in her car. But the warm liquid over his fingertips keeps him grounded, reminds him that there are more important issues at the moment. "I'm not going to hurt you," he rushes out, pulling back the hood so she can see his face. "I'd never—"

"I know," she blurts, her eyes going wide again, now in surprise at herself. Felicity leans across her seat, back toward him, reaching out a hand with fingernails that are orange this time. Then, as though she's thought better of it, she wrenches her hand back. "You're bleeding." Her hand goes to her forehead. "But you know that. I mean that looks bad and you need blood." He thought she noticed his too-large canine teeth the last time they met, and her reaction confirms it; there's no other way she could have known it.

She shrugs out of her coat and then searches through her bag, frantic and desperate in a way that baffles Oliver. While she's generally very receptive to his lies and half-truths, he thinks the blonde is taking this a little _too_ well. Muttering to herself, she says, "Why didn't I start carrying blood in my glove box or something? That would have come in handy and I should have known you'd need it…" She trails off as she pulls out a hair tie, yanking her hair back into a haphazard ponytail.

From there, Felicity pulls on the door handle, releasing the lock. Oliver starts to protest, but she assures him, "I'm not going anywhere." True to her word, she stops as soon as she's standing outside the car, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it across to the front passenger's seat without any regard for it. Then she pushes the driver's seat forward to get into the back, pulling off her pink heels as she does so.

Because he takes up most of the back seat in her clown car, there's really nowhere for her to go as she crawls over to him. His legs are sprawled across the back as he keeps himself in an upright position, which leaves Felicity nowhere to go but half in his lap as she examines the wound in his shoulder. Though Oliver means to keep pressure on the wound, she's able to pull his hand away to look at it because he can't seem to focus on anything other than the fact her pencil skirt—covered in cartoon cat faces—has ridden up, exposing a liberal amount of thigh.

"That doesn't look good," the blonde notes, causing Oliver's eyes to snap back to hers. A light dusting of color has spread across her cheekbones, probably having noticed his staring, but neither of them are brave enough to address it. "But I happen to have fresh blood supply right here." She gestures to her neck.

He may be weak, but Oliver is already shaking his head by the time she finishes speaking, trying to extricate himself from her without hurting her. "No," he snaps, his tone lashing out at her. Diggle usually flinches when he uses that tone, but it doesn't even faze the blonde on his lap. "I've never fed live before—I don't know how to do it and I'm not going to risk that with you." For a moment, he wars with indecision; he swore to himself that he wasn't going to talk about her own vampire status until she chose to tell him, but things are different now. "And I don't know what would happen if I fed from another vampire."

To his surprise, Felicity laughs. "Not a vampire," is all she says, her lips turning up into a smile. The cryptic remark doesn't last long before she's pushing past it. "And I've done a lot of research to make sure it would be safe for you to feed from me. You need blood _now_ , and I'm currently your only resource, Oliver, so I don't think you get to be picky."

Even arguing is taking more energy than he has; he can't keep up with the intensity of this conversation while blood is steadily seeping through his fingertips. "Felicity," he growls, exhaustion lacing his voice, "that doesn't change things. "I've never fed live, and I've never met another vampire who has. I don't know how to do this—and I don't know what would happen to you." Even thinking it is unfathomable, and forcing the words out is that much harder: "I'm not used to stopping when I'm thirsty. I could kill you."

The blonde raises an unimpressed eyebrow, the expression both familiar and foreign at the same time. He expects her to be daunted, but the look on her face says this statement changes nothing. But silent communication must not be clear enough for her, though, because she answers, "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

"But I'm not," Oliver snaps at her. He has to look away before admitting his next words: "I'd rather die."

Oliver expects that to be the end of it, but Felicity seems to have other ideas. She reaches a hand under his chin, her thumb landing on one side of his jaw and her fingers on the other. In a quick, sharp movement, she wrenches his head so that his wide eyes meet hers. For the first time since he's known her, the blonde's features look… _hard_ , exposing a fire and determination that the archer never expected under that kind, honest exterior.

"You listen to _me_ , Oliver Queen," she almost growls at him, her voice taking on a low quality. There's little else the archer can do but gape at her, reaching for words that won't come. But it doesn't matter because she doesn't allow him to speak anyway. "I have spent too much time keeping you alive and I am too emotionally invested in you to let you d—" Her voice cracks on the sound, causing her to break off and bite her lip. With his enhanced vision in the low light, he can see the glassy set to her eyes. Guilt sinks like a stone in his stomach immediately; something tells him it takes a lot to make Felicity Smoak cry, and the fact that he nearly has makes him feel like a prize ass.

In a gentle whisper, she finishes the sentence, "To let anything happen to you." Her features harden after a moment's pause, and then that fire and hardness is back in her tone. "Not while I can do something to help you. So you have two options, Oliver: you can bite into me right now, or I can open my wrist with the knife in your jacket and force blood down your throat." The ultimatum takes him by surprise, as does her knowledge of his weaponry, his eyebrows shooting up. "Option one is probably going to hurt less."

Exhausted and tired of the saliva pooling in his mouth in anticipation, he snaps, "Fine." The blonde holds out her wrist, but he pushes her hand away. "You're small enough that biting your wrist could go through to the bone, and I'm not going to put you in that kind of pain." He brushes an errant strand of hair away from her neck, and only then does he realize that her ears are pointed, too—which explains why she always wears her hair down. Whatever Felicity is, she's entirely other from everything he's ever encountered. "The neck is the best option." Even as weak as he is, he can't resist the chance to taunt her. "Unless you want me to use the inside of your thigh instead."

"I'm not sure if you actually mean that or if you just trying to get me to flash a little more leg," Felicity retorts, not allowing him to get away with _anything_. It also serves to confirm Oliver's earlier suspicions; she _had_ caught him staring before. If he were a decent man, he'd apologize, but then again, the archer hasn't been a good man in a very long time and he sees no reason to start now. She pokes him in his good shoulder. "Now stop being adorable and take a bite." She gives a nervous giggle. "Talk about giving new meaning to the question, 'coffee, tea, or me?' Pretty sure this isn't what they had in mind."

There's no way the vigilante can answer that right now, not with her on his lap and the tension already building between them. Instead, he pulls the bloody glove off his left hand, curling his bare hand around the back of her neck to cradle the base of her head with care. It overwhelms him then, the idea of feeding from a human—from _Felicity_ —all too real. "If I go too far…" he starts, unable to finish it. Because the possibility of killing her is all too real and her life isn't one he can bear to have on his conscience.

"I'll stop you," Felicity promises, her words both determined and confident.

He nods once, then presses his nose to the side of her throat as he cranes her head to allow better access to his target area. At this proximity, her unique scent is overwhelming—both strong and sweet, delicate and laced with something harder underneath, not unlike the woman it belongs to. With trepidation, he places his lips to her neck, barely allowing them to touch her skin. The blonde releases a shaky breath, and only then does Oliver gain the confidence to run his tongue along the place. He has nothing to base his actions on; at this point, he's relying on instinct alone. While that usually keeps him alive, he's afraid of what it will mean for _Felicity_.

"Do you want me to give you any warning?" he murmurs against her skin.

The answer is immediate. "No," she replies, her tone firm as she presses one hand against his wound to apply pressure for him. "Just give it to me hard and fast." Oliver freezes at her wording, and he can feel the muscles of her neck tense under his mouth as she cringes, this time followed by a groan. "My brain thinks of the absolute _worst_ way to say things. No warning, Oliver. Just go ahead and—"

No way is he going to let that one slide, not when her reactions are always so amusing and charming. "I can do hard and fast," he assures her. Felicity takes a breath to say something, but he doesn't let her, instead running his tongue against her neck. And, though he knows it's wrong and that it only blurs the lines further between them, he can't resist kissing the spot once before pulling back.

And then he buries his teeth in her neck.

Oliver expects resistance, expects it to take effort. Instead, skin and muscle part easily to make room for his sharp teeth, sinking in until his incisors are pressing against her skin. The way she tenses makes him think it probably hurt, which just makes his insides churn with guilt all over again. But there's nothing to do now but go on. Relying on instinct alone, he pulls his teeth out of her, swiping his tongue across her new wounds with a delicate touch.

As soon as his saliva meets with the wound, blood starts welling in his mouth. This doesn't taste stale or laced with artificial preservatives, but fresh and just as alive as the woman in his arms. She relaxes in his arms after a moment, and he curves his other arm around her to hold her upright. Always aware of her, Oliver feeds from her throat, closing his eyes and savoring the taste.

Already he can feel his wound starting to mend itself, but he can't focus on anything more than the blood in his mouth. He laps at her neck like a man fresh from the desert would gulp water, his body desperate for the substance it can no longer make to sustain itself. After a moment, Felicity makes a sound under her breath, a small whimper that affects him in a way her blood doesn't. At first he doesn't understand it, but then a new taste adds to her blood, one thick and heavy that makes him crave so much more from her than her blood. Too late he realizes that his saliva is laced with more than an anticoagulant—no doubt he's feeling the effects of the same aphrodisiac he unwittingly pumped into her bloodstream.

That alone is what makes him stop, his eyes flying open as he decides he can't allow this to go any further than it already has. With that note of finality, he releases her. A long-buried instinct tells him to bite down on the pad of his thumb, hard enough to draw blood. Felicity throws him a foggy frown, her eyes still heavily lidded from the high he sent her on. "Do you trust me?" he can't help but ask, his voice rough with something he chooses not to define.

"Always," she answers with a slight slur and breathless, her voice ringing with so much sincerity that it sounds like a promise.

Holding his breath, Oliver presses the bloody pad of his thumb against the wound in her neck, sliding it across with a ghost of a touch. He's already hurt her enough for one night. Sure enough, the moment his blood touches her skin, it starts to clot, forming a seal. "That's going to scar," he warns her, having long since become an expert on such things. "After you get me back to the base, you should put some ice on it to slow the swelling."

Felicity nods several times in agreement, her eyes slightly out of focus. Then she pulls her hand away from his wound to inspect it. "Looks better," the blonde decides after a moment. Oliver agrees; at least now, the artery is only leaking instead of pulsing blood several feet away The blonde tries to stand and pull her leg across him to leave, but stumbles in the process, nearly falling headfirst into one of the headrests.

Oliver catches her, pushing her back down on his lap in a more perpendicular fashion. One leg folds underneath her, but he slowly eases it out so that it dangles against his thigh. "Take a minute," he insists, pushing some of the loose strands away from her face. "Talk to me, Felicity," the archer nearly begs, panic rising. Something's wrong, and the lack of her usual loquaciousness is starting to make him think this was an even more terrible idea than he suspected.

Closing her eyes tight, the IT expert answers in a small voice, "I'm fine." He opens his mouth to tell her she's a worse liar than even him, but her head drops against his good shoulder and all he can think about is cradling her in his arms, pulling her further against him in a protective gesture. What Oliver is trying to protect her from, he doesn't know; much like feeding, it's just instinct at this point. "Just a little dizzy," Felicity assures him, sounding more like herself. "You know, I kind of expected that to be detached and clinical, but then you did some vampire voodoo on me. I'm not sure if I said anything, but if I did—"

He can't let her finish that sentence. "You didn't," Oliver promises. "And you weren't the only one affected by it." The admission is important to him for some reason; he can't let her think he did this to her on purpose. "I didn't that would happen to you, Felicity. If I knew, I would never—"

Her hand falls over his mouth, muffling his speech in her attempt to silence him. "I _know_ , Oliver," she says, her voice weary in a way that has nothing to do with the blood loss. Her fingers are slick with the blood emptying out of his body—blood that was no more his than the substance he just ingested. Part of him wonders what she'd do if he popped one of her bloodstained fingers into his mouth, but the other thinks he's probably terrified her enough for one night.

After leaving his mouth, her fingers brush against the wound again, and she sits up in an abrupt motion before getting back to her feet again. "I know this probably comes as a newsflash to you," Felicity continues as she pushes herself out of the back seat and slides on her shoes again, "but the only person here who thinks you're a monster is _you_. You came to me with a dubiously shot-up laptop. If I thought you were a bad guy, I would have imaged it and told the police about it."

As she situates herself into the driver's seat again, Oliver studies her with new appreciation. From day one, she apparently made the decision to trust him, putting more faith in him than he deserved—more than anyone ever has, really. It's the kind of faith he _never_ sees one human being put in another, especially when he gave her reasons not to trust him from the first moment they met. Under normal circumstances, he'd elect not to comment on something like that, but he can't let this go unsaid. "That was a brave decision to make."

To his surprise, she turns back to him with a playful smile before putting the car in drive. "Not really," the blonde answers, her tone pleasant but unreadable. Silence stretches between them for a moment, with the only sound coming from Felicity tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she drives. "In the interest of full disclosure," she starts in a frantic tone, blurting the sentence, "I knew you were the Vigilante—and a vampire—the moment you walked into my office."

For a rare movement, Oliver's mind goes blank, reeling with this new piece of information. Part of it probably has something to do with the blood loss that's starting to get to him, making his mind a very sluggish place to be, but the confession isn't one he expected. But now that he has it, so many things about her reactions to him make sense when they didn't before. "How—?" he starts, his words slurring with fatigue, but she doesn't let him finish.

"This is a conversation for when you're _not_ shot and bleeding in the back seat of my car," she answers, waving a hand. "I promise I'll explain later, but for the moment, we need to get you back to the foundry—I hate that you call it a 'base,' by the way—so that we can get some fresh blood in you." Oliver fights to stay conscious as her voice grows further away, pulling himself upright when he starts listing to the side again. Of course she notices, reaching her hand back toward him. Though he shouldn't, he takes the extended hand, watching as fingers with orange nails press into his hand, contrasting oddly against his complexion that hasn't been touched by sun in years.

"You don't have to fight to stay awake now," Felicity assures him in a quiet voice. "I know how to get into the base and you're safe here." In an interesting dichotomy, her tone is both hard and tender at the same time, filled with determination and gentle with concern. "I know where you keep your blood supply and I'll make sure you get what you need."

Oliver means to say, "thank you," but his consciousness fades before he can.

* * *

When Diggle calls and gets no response, he knows something is wrong. Sure, Oliver might make a habit of ignoring him in person, but he can't think of a single time he's called—especially when the kid was on a mission as the Vigilante—and his somewhat reluctant partner hasn't answered. When he was in Afghanistan, he had a feel for these kinds of things, and right now, something is telling him that things have gone wrong somehow.

He's trying to pull on his jacket to leave when the keypad on the door lights up green, but John's relief fades quickly when he hears the sound of shoes on the steps just out of sight. Oliver moves without a sound, even on a bad day. Drawing his gun, he holds it up, waiting for a clear target to appear as the possibilities run through his head. He always makes sure he isn't followed, and Oliver wouldn't reveal this place even under torture. There has to be some reason—

The girl on the stairs is so disheveled that it takes John a moment to recognize her. Blonde hair falling out of its ponytail, Felicity practically runs into the room in her pink heels, her turquoise blouse stained with a red that's far easier to explain than her presence in the room. She holds up her right hand between them as she stops to catch her breath, and it's covered in the same blood that's all over her shirt. "It's Oliver," she blurts, and he disregards his gun on the spot, holstering it again. "Something happened and he was shot. I found him in the back of my car and gave him a fix"—it takes John a moment to realize what it means, but the red, swelling injury on her neck is proof enough—"but he's still bleeding and unconscious and…" She stops, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. "He's _really_ heavy."

That's all it takes to set him into motion, grabbing the portable gurney from under the metal table before following her back up the stairs and bypassing her on his way to the small car. Her seat is already pulled forward when he opens the door, giving him access to the unconscious vigilante. He rolls out the gurney on the ground before looking at the very small blonde he has for help. "Do you think you can help me carry him in?" He could probably call Tommy—who knows about his friend's nightly activities—but that would cost them precious time Oliver doesn't have.

"I think I'll probably have to," Felicity answers, tucking her hair behind her ear and smearing blood through it and across her forehead in the process. The action draws his attention to her very pointed ears, and the industrial piercing through the top of the right one. "You don't really have much of a choice here, John. He needs blood and fast."

The ease with which she's taking the situation of Oliver being a vampire is odd. Digg didn't know himself until a few weeks back, when Tommy was in the base with them and made the assumption that the former sergeant already knew. Oliver hadn't liked it much, but had reluctantly filled in the gaps. While it's weird and a little surreal at times, it's rarely an issue because the vampire's condition doesn't seem to affect his day-to-day life.

Despite that, Diggle doesn't stop to address the IT expert's cool acceptance, instead focusing on hauling his unconscious friend out of the car by his armpits. As though she's done this before, Felicity doesn't hesitate to grab Oliver's legs as he comes free of the vehicle, and they both lay him across the flat surface. The blonde immediately starts to scramble over the top of the unconscious man, buckling him in place with the straps. Diggle offers her a hand up when she finishes, and she takes it while pushing more hair out of her face. Maybe she's a little more help than he originally thought.

When they lift him, Felicity clearly struggles with her end, but she doesn't complain, instead helping Digg carry Oliver's unconscious body down the stairs. They place him on the metal table with relative ease, and only then does the blonde stop to catch her breath. At the same time, John hooks Oliver up to the monitor before tearing through their first-aid kit—a modified upright toolbox—for suture. After finding it and a pair of hemostats stuck in the back of a drawer, he brings them to the table.

"What are you doing?" the blonde asks, breathless. When John turns, it's to find her studying him with narrowed eyebrows and confusion written all over her features. Before he can answer, realization dawns across her features before her eyes go wide. "Oh, God," she whispers. "He didn't tell you, did he? About his… _condition_ , I mean."

Because she's starting to fidget and looks a little uncomfortable, Digg puts her out of her misery. "Yeah, I know he's a vampire." He crosses his arms. "And he _bit_ you." Even now, he can't stop his disgust Oliver from coming out; he assured John that he'd never bitten a human before and only fed from blood bags. A vampire, he can handle, but a liar is another thing. While it might be a little quick to jump to that conclusion, the evidence is the red mark on the blonde's neck.

"No," Felicity blurts at the end of his sentence. Then she tilts her head to the side before amending, "Well, yeah, he did feed from me, but he didn't _feed_ feed." Flustered, she shakes her head and closes her eyes. "They're different in my head. Anyway, you're acting like he just held me down and bit into me without asking for permission. He was squirting arterial blood, judging by the spray across my windshield, and I knew he needed blood fast. I _volunteered_ —and he was terrified he was going to hurt me." She holds up a hand before walking to the first-aid kit, pulling several bags of blood out of the bottom as she continues, "Don't make him out to be the bad guy. That's not Oliver's style."

She brings back bags of varying blood types, along with a huge syringe and a thick, sterile needle. "But we have more important issues here." She holds up the syringe. "He's lost a lot of blood, and the best way to get him conscious again is to inject more into his blood stream—fast release." Then she bites her lip. "But the problem is, that could create a shock to his system and really mess up his already unstable vitals." Later, John will remember to ask her how she knows this, but for the moment, they have more important things to think about. "But—"

He gets the gist of where this is headed. "But if we don't, he's dead anyway." The blonde flinches at his blunt explanation, but then nods after a moment. It's a tough call, but he knows that the other option is a death sentence for his colleague and friend—and Digg has watched enough people die in the field for one lifetime to condemn Oliver to the same fate. "I'll go get a tourniquet."

Felicity grabs a pair of gloves for herself, frowning as she rubs at her eye. It takes John a moment to find the rubber tourniquet, but when he turns back, she's throwing what looks like color contacts in the trash, blinking several times as she stares at him with very familiar, blue eyes. But the thing that throws him first is that her pupils aren't round, but a vertical slit that widens drastically in the middle before tapering back down in a point.

It's only then that he decides to comment on something he's been holding back all night: "You really seem to know your way around this place." She drops the syringe as she tries to twist the needle into the luer lock, but John is sure to keep his voice neutral instead of accusatory. Oliver would probably be dead already without her help; the last thing he wants to do is push her away.

"I've spent more time here than you," Felicity answers after a long moment as she draws blood into the syringe. Diggle simply pulls Oliver out of his jacket and wraps the tourniquet around his now exposed arm, waiting for her to respond again. It's quiet for what feels like an eternity, but then she says with an air of defeat, "I've just been a cat while I did."

Having a suspicion is one thing, but the confirmation is another thing entirely, John decides. Taking the syringe from her hand, he takes a moment to hit Oliver's vein before asking, "So you're… what, exactly? A shapeshifter?" Slowly he pushes the plunger in, trying not to make this sudden change more difficult for Oliver than it already will be.

"Of course not," Felicity answers in a sharp tone, almost sounding insulted. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her cross her arms, trying to create a barrier between them. "Shapeshifters have an unlimited number of animal forms they can take—basically, whatever they want to be, they are." She points to herself. "I, on the other hand, always shift into a cat. That makes me a werecat, not a shapeshifter. And honestly, it's not as weird as it probably sounds right now."

After a moment of reflecting upon her phrasing, about the implied statement that shapeshifters exist, too, Diggle decides that this is something for them to discuss in detail later. More important questions pop into his head right now, starting with sating his own curiosity. "So you were bit by another werecat or something?"

To his surprise, Felicity laughs. "I'm a were _cat_ , John, not a were _wolf_. Just because they have 'were-' at the beginning doesn't make them the same thing. That's just a root word that means 'human.'" Her hand reaches out for Oliver's leg, the action so fluid that Digg can only assume it's unconscious. Even in her cat form, she usually sought Oliver out, and he figures this isn't an exception. "Werewolves are turned, like vampires—well, according to mythology, anyway. I don't think they actually exist." Digg snorts; a moment ago, _she_ seemed like something out of a fantasy story, too. "Werecats are _born_ , not created."

More for his own benefit than hers, Diggle concludes, "So your parents are werecats, too."

The blonde winces in response to that. " _Actually_ ," she answers, drawing out the word, "that isn't exactly how it works. My mom is as human as you are." That information gives him a start; it doesn't make any sense that Felicity is some sort of fantastical creature from something so… _ordinary_. "And my dad was a shapeshifter—a _real_ shapeshifter. Not just cats."

With a deep sigh, she launches into her explanation. "Do you remember my friend Barry—the one who ran analysis on the Vertigo sample you handed me?" It shouldn't surprise him that she knows; after all, she'd been in the lair that night, if only in feline form. "He's human, but his mom was a werecat, too. So he's spent most of his life trying to figure out _why_. For his own curiosity, sure, but also to help us understand ourselves." She waves a hand. "There's a lot more genetics jargon when he talks about it, but the short-but-somehow-still-long version is that he's isolated shapeshifting to a gene on the X-chromosome." She shifts her weight to the other hip. "Remember in genetics how they talked about how you could cross a red flower and a white flower to make a pink flower? Incomplete dominance. Well, that's how a werecat is created—inherits a shifter variant of the gene from one parent and the human version from the other parent.

"But because it's only the X-chromosome," Felicity continues, "that apparently means that men can't be werecats—just shapeshifters or human. Otherwise, they'd have to have _two_ X-chromosomes and a Y-chromosome, but Kleinfelter's Syndrome is rare. When you mix it with the odds of being in a super-rare shifter line, the odds are a very long bus ride south of small."

Diggle allows himself a laugh as he hands the syringe back to the blonde, holding pressure over the spot in Oliver's arm while she fills it again. "So you've been watching over him all this time," he concludes, marveling at how blind the two of them have been. Felicity has been in their lives all along, but they've never realized it.

"Not just Oliver," Felicity corrects, passing him the syringe back. "I watch over you, too, but Oliver is typically the one in need of saving." She waves a hand. "A lot of werecats don't embrace their other side—whichever one that is—and prefer to stay in one form, but I feel like by doing that, I would be rejecting an entire part of myself. When I go into one form, it recharges the other, so I don't have to sleep when I shift forms. That's why I was prowling around the city the night I found him." Again she fidgets, but this time Diggle notes the hesitation behind it. "My reactions are a lot more… well, like a cat's because feline instinct takes over, but I saw him stop a would-be rapist and I just… was curious, I guess." Then she groans. "And, _please_ , do not remind me that curiosity killed the cat because I've heard that enough from my mother. She always forgets the best part, though: curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

Before he can respond, the heart monitor goes into a long, sustained note, the word _asystole_ flashing across the top in red. "There's a bottle labeled 'atropine' in the top shelf," Diggle barks to Felicity as he rushes for the ancient defibrillator and starts dragging their makeshift crash cart over. "Dose is labeled on the syringe. Inject into a muscle."

Despite her lack of experience in emergency situations, the blonde doesn't panic; instead, the syringe is drawn up when he returns, and she wastes no time shoving it into his thigh despite shaking hands. It's had no time to go into effect, but time is of the essence, so Digg reaches for the paddles anyway. After taking a moment that feels all too long to charge, he presses the paddles against Oliver's chest but nothing happens.

This time, Felicity is the one to react faster, picking up a screwdriver and reaching for the front panel of the machine. "Give me two seconds, Digg," she warns him as she removes the front panel. "I heard the charge, so everything is working. That means the issue is probably a short in the delivery. If I can just…" She trails off after twisting two wires together. "Try now."

When he tries again, the charge goes through, but it's Oliver who doesn't respond. Diggle only waits long enough for another charge before trying again. There's a pause, and then the heart monitor starts clicking away again, his heart beat even more stable than before.

John breathes a sigh of relief before looking over at his blonde partner, the one who works with him like a well-oiled machine instead of the woman he's only met twice (in human form). He means to tell her she did well, but the words die in his throat as he looks at her. Felicity's arms are wrapped around her middle as though it's the only thing holding her together, her eyes glassy and her hands shaking even though she's balled them into fists.

Though he doesn't know her that well, already Diggle understands that this isn't the kind of woman who breaks down publicly. Even now she's trying to hold everything together, despite the fearful concern in her features. Perhaps to them she's only an IT expert who is willing to look the other way when it comes to Oliver's dubious missions, but both he and Oliver are more than just mere acquaintances to her. Instead, they're friends—people she trusts and has grown fond of over the last few months. Only then does he understand what agony this must be for her—perhaps even more so than him because she's been doing this a lot longer.

And no doubt Oliver has revealed sides of himself to her, his soft spot, that Diggle doesn't even know exist.

"Felicity," he calls to her in a quiet tone, and her head snaps up to meet his gaze instantly. "Why don't try to clean up in there?" He points to the small bathroom that Oliver had built when he started using Tommy's club as a front. "You're covered in blood—take a minute and try to get it out before it gets caked into your hair."

As expected, she shakes her head the moment he finishes. "I can clean up later," she assures him, her voice wavering just a little. "I mean, it doesn't feel very good, but we have more important things happening here." In a small voice, she adds, "And I want to be here. I'm always here through the poisonings and drug overdoses and injures, John, and I—"

The panic in her tone is what makes Diggle stop her. "And you're not going anywhere, Felicity," he finishes in a gentle tone. She knows how dire the situation is, which is what he thinks makes this hard for her to watch. "You'll still be here, just in the other room. And I can watch over him just this once—and I'll call you if anything happens." It's only then that she relents, nodding mutely before turning for the bathroom.

When she emerges half an hour later with wet hair, clean skin, and red-rimmed eyes, John doesn't say a word.

* * *

Coming to after being unconscious is almost an out-of-body experience for Oliver; he never gets the opportunity to sleep now, so when any time passes that he isn't aware of, it's as much a novelty as finding blank pages in the middle of an otherwise filled journal. Because of that constant awareness afforded to him by his condition, however, there's no transition between asleep and alert. The moment his autonomy is returned to him, his eyes fly open.

What he doesn't expect is to find a set of eyes staring back at him, the familiar blue-green irises and oval-shaped pupils out of place in an entirely different person—and species—than he expects. It would unnerve him in a different context, but he's spent years watching Tommy shift through a wide variety of animals, changing everything but his amber eyes. Suddenly it all makes sense—how she knew about the base, about him being the Vigilante, about him being a vampire, when she didn't want to hear his lies about a laptop she'd watched him bring back from Floyd Lawton's hotel room.

Still, it needs to be said aloud, to confirm he isn't just seeing things. Fortunately, though, he's had experience with these kinds of things before. "You're a shapeshifter," Oliver breathes, no question in his raspy voice of what she is. There's no judgment or harshness there, only fact he needs her to comment upon.

A smile turns the corners of Felicity's mouth upward. "Werecat, actually," she answers. "I can only shift into a cat— _the_ cat." She waves a hand. "I can't even vary it up every now and then, which is a little disappointing." Her fingers drum across his arm, and Oliver has to glance down to realize the fingers of her right hand are threaded through his, her left hand on his forearm. The tangle of limbs is both familiar and unexpected at the same time; no doubt if she had been in her cat form, she'd be draped across him right now. "We can discuss the rest of this later, though. Digg is upstairs talking to Tommy—he thought you might need ride home who wouldn't arouse suspicion." Her head tilts to the side. "More importantly, how are you feeling?"

"Like I took a bullet through an artery," he deadpans, which earns him a look sharp enough to cut through rock. Oliver ignores it as his eyes focus in on the wound he left on her neck, reaching his free hand across his body to prod at it gingerly. "I told you to put ice on this. It looks painful." Realizing he'll have to be the one to take care of her this time, he pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing when he puts pressure on his injury.

Felicity rises to her feet, taking his gray hoodie from the workstation and handing it to him. He shrugs it on with slow, exaggerated motions to avoid any further injury to his tender shoulder. "It is," she agrees with his assessment, and Oliver appreciates that she doesn't try to deny it. "But I had more important things to think about. Like keeping you alive when most of your blood is in my car, on my clothes, and in your bathroom sink." In a very quiet voice, she adds, "You flatlined. It was kind of terrifying."

A close brush with death is nothing new for him, but the idea of her concern is. Oliver has to take a moment to remind himself that though she's not quite a friend but more familiar than an acquaintance to him, Felicity has spent every night for the last few months down here with him, probably building up affection the same way he has for the feral cat he didn't know to associate with the blonde woman in front of him. After all, he'd once threatened to put in arrow in Diggle if he hurt her—a threat the archer absolutely would have made good on.

Sliding off the gurney, Oliver stands in front of her, tilting her head up to look at him. "Are you okay?" he asks her, knowing that condolences aren't going to help. He's not sorry about what he did and it's not going to stop him from going out in the field next few days. At this point, apologizing would just be hollow words, and it would only make them both feel worse.

His answer comes first in the form of a few short, sharp nods. "Yeah, I'm fine," she assures him, fidgeting with the peeling paint on her now-ragged nails—probably from biting them in her nervousness while he was unconscious. "I just…" Her voice dies, but comes back stronger, her words pouring out faster. "It wasn't good for a while, and I like you better when you're breathing." She wraps her arms around herself, and this time her words come out in that frantic rush he's become so familiar with. "And I'm kind of fighting the urge to hug you right now because I know you like boundaries and I'm just a stranger to you. But I've known you for _months_ now and you're one of the closest things I have to a friend." She makes a face without warning. "Which is kind of pathetic, if you think about it, because—"

Though he has to fight every instinct he has to do it, Oliver pulls her into his arms, for the benefit of her comfort. She first tenses in surprise, but then she relaxes, wrapping her arms around the middle of his torso while releasing a long, hot breath against his chest. "You're not a stranger," Oliver assures her. No stranger could have possibly broken down his defenses so fast. Maybe some part of him recognized that she was familiar, chose to trust her because in a way, he already did. Leaning down to murmur it in her ear, he continues, "You've been saving me for so long, and I never even knew it. Thank you."

"Anytime," Felicity promises, her response muffled slightly by his jacket. She makes no move to release him, and, truthfully, Oliver isn't in any hurry, either. "And the next thing I'm going to save you from is your horrendous computer setup. It's hurt me in my soul since day one, and I'm tired of staring at that museum piece you call a monitor. Just because you spent ten years on an island doesn't mean that your computer should be from last decade. There's a whole new world of technology out there, Oliver. Learn to embrace it."

A laugh escapes him, one she probably feels more than she hears. Beeping on the keypad outside warns him of Diggle's return, so Oliver reluctantly releases Felicity, taking a few steps back. The last time the former soldier watched the two of them interact, he'd started firing questions as soon as he and Oliver had returned to the car, with a precision that would put many a professional interrogator to shame. Digg's infinite patience coupled with a long car ride made for an experience he'd rather not repeat tonight.

"I probably don't have to tell you this," he starts, his words coming in slow bursts, "but you have a place on this team if you want it— _however_ you want it." Whether she wants to be the cat who prowls around at his feet or the technical genius watching over him with a satellite, he'll except it—even both of them, if she wants. Because something tells him that Felicity Smoak isn't someone he'll easily replace.

Her eyebrows narrow together, confusion overtaking a brief second of surprise. "You're not a little weirded out by the whole cat thing? Because usually that bothers people." She waves a hand, nearly smacking him in the process due to their still-close proximity. "I _like_ being able to shift, Oliver, and now that you two know, I'm not going to hide what I am."

Diggle steals the words right out of Oliver's mouth: "We wouldn't want you to. Welcome aboard."


End file.
